


Kindness of Strangers

by leveragehunters (Monkeygreen)



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Bucky Barnes's Backpack, Gen, Not a backpack of sadness though, POV Bucky Barnes, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-Captain America: Civil War, a backpack of optimism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-14
Updated: 2016-04-14
Packaged: 2018-06-02 04:49:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6551731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monkeygreen/pseuds/leveragehunters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We know what Bucky keeps in his backpack, and why he's so desperate not to lose it. But where did he get it in the first place? This is one way it could have happened. (Spoilers for what Sebastian Stan said that Bucky keeps in his backpack.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kindness of Strangers

**Author's Note:**

> What if Bucky didn't start with a notebook, what if he started scratching his memories down on whatever bits of paper he could find?

The clouds were a sullen, iron grey, hanging low over the City Square. There weren't many people around, mostly students and early commuters hurrying to catch buses home.  People didn't go out in the threat of rain if they had a choice.

Bucky was sniper still, sitting unnoticed on a bench, partially shadowed by the branches stretching overhead.  His stillness was unnecessary; most people would choose not to notice him. He was unshaven, hair lank under his baseball cap, a glove on his left hand, wearing too many layers, with a thousand yard stare and a too-tight grip on the plastic bag in his lap.

He stared straight ahead, unseeing, his mind lost in a memory of somewhere else.

 _The square was brightly lit, the distant sound of bells heralding the new hour._ _He made his way silently across the cobblestones, movements so smooth that the pigeons covering the ground like a blanket barely shuffled out of his way. He moved like he belonged. His target had no idea he was there, was idly tapping at his cell phone, unaware of his surroundings.  Bucky calmly walked up behind him, pressed a gun to the base of his skull, and pulled the trigger. The pigeons exploded to life around him, their wings beating against his body, against his face._

_He could feel their wings._

He could feel their wings.

Frowning, he brushed at his face, batting at the fluttering paper, then snatched at it, eyes wide. 

The bag, his bag of scavenged papers, the papers he'd written his memories on, he'd ripped it open, clenched his metal fingers and torn into it. 

The memories came when they chose, unruly feral beasts he couldn't control.  Sometimes they came snarling and vicious, sometimes they came and curled, warm and purring, against his heart.  Either way, they never stayed.  Then he'd found a cracked, leaking pen, someone's old receipt, and trapped them.  He wrote them down on whatever bits of paper he could find, tucked them into the plastic bag so he could keep them safe.   

But now the errant breeze had lifted his papers, stolen them, sent them tumbling away. Bucky lunged after them, snatching the ones in front of him, eyes scanning the ground. He found one which had flattened itself against a trash can, plucked several from the air, spotted one tucked against a tree root.

People passing by automatically averted their gaze, wilfully not seeing him, and he scowled as someone stepped on a flyer from a drycleaner – promising two for one shirts every Tuesday – on which he'd written down the memory of his first dance.  Bucky picked it up, trying to shuffle them all into a manageable pile, but it was impossible. They were different sizes, different shapes, had been folded and refolded too many times, and all he managed was an awkward stack that the breeze wanted to steal away. 

Some were still missing. He looked up again, scanning the area, and realised that not everyone had passed by. There was a man, standing about ten feet away, and he had a handful of Bucky's papers, was frowning at Bucky's smudged handwriting.

Bucky had no memory of moving. He was just there, papers awkwardly shoved into his left hand, right hand wrapped around the man's slender wrist, looming over him. The man—and Bucky had to reassess, because he was a kid, really, couldn't be more than nineteen—barely came up to Bucky's collarbone.  The kid paled and his eyes were wide. "Those are mine," Bucky said, and it came out harsh, harsher than he meant it to, but he wasn't used to talking.  

"No, I know." The words were tripping over themselves, the kid was rushing to try and get them out. "I wasn't taking them. I saw you trying to pick them up and I thought you could use some help." He tugged on his wrist but Bucky's grip, for all that it wasn't hurting him, was like steel. "I just wanted to help."

Bucky considered it, studying the kid as the world washed away and there was _Steve, all blue eyes and blond hair and defiance, saying, "It's not right, Bucky, you can't just expect me to stand by and watch while Donnie and his brother get treated like that." And Bucky replying, "Not saying you have to stand by forever, Stevie, but you couldn't have waited five damn minutes for me to get there?" as he mopped blood off Steve's face._

"Could you please let go of me?"

Bucky snapped back to here and now, unsure how long he'd been gone. The kid looked, not quite afraid, but his eyes were wary, and Bucky snatched his hand back like he'd been scalded, stepping away, putting distance between them.

"Sorry," he said, voice rough.

The kid looked up at him. "It's okay. I get it. You were scared I was going to take something important to you. Here." He held out the papers and Bucky took them, adding them to his pile. He should say thank you, he knew, but the words wouldn’t come. He nodded instead.

The kid looked down at the papers Bucky was clutching protectively against his body, then up at the grey sky, at the clouds that promised rain, then his eyes landed back on Bucky's face.  He nodded to himself, then went down on one knee, slipped the backpack off his shoulder and started emptying it, creating a small, haphazard pile of belongings. As Bucky watched in confusion he took a notebook off the pile, ripped the first dozen pages out of it, and returned it to the backpack. Once he was finished, he stood up. "Here," he said, holding it out with the top open. "It's waterproof. You'll be able to zip it up so they'll be safe. And there's a notebook, if you want to write more things down."

"I can't take it." Bucky shook his head, backing away another step. "You need it."

"I have another one at home. You should take this one. Please?" The kid gave the backpack a little shake, took a small step towards Bucky.

Bucky looked at the backpack. It was black, covered in straps and clips; complicated. He studied the kid's face. He looked earnest, like he really wanted Bucky to have it, even if Bucky didn't understand _why_. He'd tried to help; in return Bucky had manhandled him, scared him.

He reached out to touch the backpack, ran a finger along the zipper. It looked strong, like it could keep things safe. He studied the kid's face and the kid met his eyes without flinching.  Making up his mind, Bucky carefully placed his papers inside the backpack.

The kid's face lit up and he zipped the backpack shut and handed it to Bucky. After a second, Bucky smiled back, crooked and small. It felt like his first smile in a long time. 

Glancing at his watch, the kid swore under his breath, and knelt down to pick up his stuff, shoving things into his pockets and gathering the rest in his arms. "I'm gonna miss my bus." He turned to trot off across the Square, but paused to look back over his shoulder. "I hope things get better for you." And then he was gone, running for a bus that was just pulling up.

Bucky watched him until he disappeared.

He had to loosen the straps, let them out as far as they would go to get it over his shoulders, and once it was on he clipped the chest strap shut. This was already better, he decided.  The first warning drops of rain splattered down around him and he walked away from the Square, his memories safe in his backpack. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading :)


End file.
